


anamnesis

by pajama_sama



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gen, Romance, but of the good kind.......shockingly, epistolary mushiness for that slight whiff of regency bisque, just a Hint of Le Angst™ at the end because i can't help myself, rated M because of haurchey boy's undying crush and his imagination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:28:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28494603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pajama_sama/pseuds/pajama_sama
Summary: Haurchefant takes a moment to count his blessings, among of which is the Warrior of Light.He still has a hard time believing she chose him.
Relationships: Haurchefant Greystone/Original Female Character(s), Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	anamnesis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Denerim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Denerim/gifts).



> tuya is not my child, but my godchild. however, cymbeline _is_ mine, and someone you'll be seeing more of in the future, hopefully :3
> 
> enjoy these sugary darlings being their gooby selves ♥

_DO NOT WEEP._

──────

In a not-so-secret drawer of Haurchefant’s desk lies a not-so-secret letter. 

It is well-loved and careworn, its edges soft with handling, the folds in the parchment fixedly defined. There is nothing particularly special about the paper it’s been written upon—nothing particularly special about the ink chosen, but it is his favorite letter, the best one he has or ever will read. Its message is written in small, round penmanship; the shape of it is still a little alien to his eyes, so used to the curling, sloped cursive of the Ishgardian nobility, of the writs drawn up by the Archbishop. 

When the nights seem too long, the cold too sharp, and the work ahead too dreary, Haurchefant has but to reach into his drawer and retrieve that letter to receive a bolstering. 

Tonight is one of those nights. The leather of his glove rasps against the parchment as he smooths it out over his desk, drinking in the words by candlelight. He is not _truly_ in need of that—the candle—because he could likely recite this missive without the help of his vision. The first line is seared into his mind.

──────

_My dearest Haurchefant,_

_I write to you in these uncertain times for certainty’s sake. The spoken word and I are not the best of friends; at the most, we are reluctant comrades, bound together in common cause. Under your tutelage, we have learned to better understand each other—be that as it may, it is still not as easy as I would like to do exactly that: to talk, to explain, to give reason to action or actions through speech. Hence, this letter._

_Do you remember when first we met?_

──────

Of course he does.

She’d been unlike anything he’d ever seen. 

Au Ra are not abundant in the Holy See of Ishgard—only one other than the Warrior of Light yet remains in the city, a survivor of the purges and hunts of the past, and Haurchefant has never met the man.

He remembers the occasion very clearly; she’d distracted him from the drudgery of paperwork, bringing a snow-sweet breeze with her when she was escorted through the door. He’d looked up, and there she was—exquisitely lovely and alive, dressed poorly for the Ishgardian weather, her silver eyes like cold fire.

She hasn’t changed much since that fantastic moment: she moves with an inherent grace that he could watch all day, stepping lightly, navigating the world with a combination of iron surety and the hasty charm of a hummingbird. He still has a hard time believing she leaves footprints wherever she goes, as the rest of them do, for there are moments he is convinced she must be some beguiling, benevolent specter; here one moment, vanished the next. 

That day, she’d introduced herself in a series of plainly rehearsed phrases, standing rigid and alert, poised as though the very walls were about to come to life and swallow her whole. To his lasting (but not very great) shame, he’d been so taken by the sight of her that he hadn’t properly responded, at first—she was beautiful and different, with her black curling horns, the medallion of dark scales on her brow, and the ring of them around her neck and throat. 

He can call to mind even the particular sheen of her plum purple hair, tousled by the winter wind, the flush of her grey skin. And the generous curve of her wonderful, clever mouth.

She’d been nervous, and he overeager. But they put it to rights soon enough. 

Her name had lingered in his mind, a song of an echo—Enkhtuya.

──────

_What I did not know—and could not know—then, was that in the coming days, you were to become my most steadfast friend, my most stalwart confidant._

_You are ever ready with a smile and a good word, an encouragement or a suggestion. Between you and I, there’s no way I could ever conceive of doing the same thing. It is too much, and often, this world of ours, and sometimes the weight of it makes me hang my head. Light, however powerful, does not reach me easily—or perhaps I am not the best at finding it, like you. We are very different. There is a wellspring of kindness in you, Haurchefant, a veritable fount of vigor: some may call you wrathful, but there is no wrath without passion, just as there is no temperance without indulgence. If that ire were cut from you, the heart of what makes you a knight would be gone, as well._

_However unseemly, however strange, those dark shards of regret and anger are parts of us all the same, nothing shameful; and I hope you forgive me for not being brave enough to admit this to you in person, for not being able to look you in the eye and proudly call you my most trusted ally._

_When I return, I swear to do better. Maybe I will even learn to keep up with you._

──────

He’s quoted that at her before, to great effect. 

It’d been back at the Fortemps manor, on a day when a relentless blizzard was howling by outside, turning the night white with a wealth of snow and ice. She’d been standing by his desk with her back to him, her oversized excuse for a sweater slipping off of one shoulder. 

“By the by,” he’d said, caging her in with an arm on either side, “do not think I’ve forgotten your ever-so-sweet written declaration.”

She’d stiffened, tensing with surprise, but leaned a little into him, hair brushing at his clavicle and mouth. “Oh?”

“Mm, yes. ‘Maybe I will even learn to keep up with you.’ Your exact words.”

Then she’d sputtered, at his tone, at his proximity, at the implication, and he’d known without looking at her that she was turning pink. 

“ _Haurchefant_ ,” she had reprimanded, her lovely accent turning the dull sound of his name into a melody. 

“Tuya,” he’d returned, lowering his head to drop a kiss to her cheek—then to the swell of horn where her ear would have been, were she elezen, her jaw, and finally, the dip of her shoulder, over the patch of scales there. They’re soft to the touch, softer than one would expect, like leather, and the places where they join to skin are wonderfully sensitive, as he’s learned.

She’d chuckled, tickled by the touch of his lips, but hadn’t pulled away. “What is it you want, then?”

That tentative response to his flirtations had been more exciting than anything else, quite honestly. For him, she’d learned those first tentative steps in the dance of courtship, venturing beyond the bounds of what she deemed comfortable and safe. 

He had hummed a noncommittal answer, as though he were giving it great thought.

“A good, tall mug of hot chocolate,” he’d begun, turning his nose into the crook of her neck. “And… perhaps a kiss.”

“Oh, not so high a price.”

He’d nibbled at her throat, delighted by her sharp peal of laughter. “Hush, beloved, I am not done quite yet,” he had chided, voice lowering to something of a purr. “I, furthermore, want your _undivided attention_. And your clothes, for good measure. You will not be needing them. I am greedy for you, you see. Insatiable. I want to spirit you away—keep you abed until the storm is passed, and to have you again and again until we can scarcely move for the exertion of it all. I want to know you in every way possible. Does that answer your question?”

“Yes,” she had said, in a tiny voice, muffled by the hands she’d covered her face with. 

“And? What say you?”

She’d turned around in his embrace as an answer, pulling him down for a kiss. 

──────

_At the risk of sounding maudlin—there is nothing I can say or write that could adequately describe what your support has meant to me. Much and more await us in the days to come, and I know you—I have not seen anything succeed in deterring you. You would stand in the face of a storm to shield a friend. I will be your shield in return, as much as I am able. You command my fealty, so long as you shall deign to have it._

_I will see you soon. Give my regards to Cymbeline._

_Yours,_

_Tuya._

──────

“What has you so engrossed, my love?”

And just like that, the letter is forgotten. Why focus on a mirage when the true treasure is before you?

Tuya is standing right there by the arm of his chair, clad in her monk’s leathers, the furred collar of her vest mingling with the dark glistening strands of her hair. Her hands are already reaching for him, brushing the fringe from his eyes, casting along his cheek and ear. 

“Some exceedingly good reading,” he says, catching her palm with his. 

Her lovely face creases into a questioning expression, brows drawing together as she tries to get a look at the parchment on his desk. “Is that—by Nhaama, Haurchefant, you _still_ have that?”

His hand shifts and rotates, catching her around the wrist, tugging her down until she’s seated squarely between his knees, back braced to his front.

“How could I not?” he asks her, lifting the paper to have her see, resting his chin on her shoulder. “It is heartfelt, impassioned, sincere—masterfully-done, I assure you. I shall never tire of it.”

“It is only a letter,” she murmurs.

“From _you.”_

“I wrote it because I thought I might not have the chance to ever—” She cuts herself off there, and sighs, leaning back and letting his arms encircle her waist. “And I was not even properly honest, truth be told. I feared, above all, frightening you with the intensity of my… ah, feelings. You were—and _are_ —my best friend—”

“Yes,” he agrees, kissing her nape, “I do recall you mentioning as much in your most ardent letter.”

“—and I could not even bear to conceive of a world where it were not so.” Tuya pauses, laughing at the tickle of his lips, feeling him grin. “Smugness is not an overly-prized quality in lords, beloved.”

“Then praise Halone that I am not, and never will be, a lord,” he says, his words gaining a longing rasp. 

Tuya draws her legs up, allowing him to take the full scope of her weight as the tension drains from her body. She is always ready for disaster, his brave and indomitable Warrior, eternally on guard, eternally ready to do her duty—but he likes that she lets go in his company, the hard lines of her body melting into softer shapes.

She is quiet—which is not out of the ordinary in the least for her—but this is the heavy kind of quiet, the withdrawn quiet, a gathering storm of the little shards and pieces of grief she keeps to herself, doubts she carries but does not ever set down. She has gotten better about sharing the burden, sometimes, if it threatens to overwhelm her, and it helps that he has made himself available: it had been difficult to coax her, in the beginning, though with the recurring and unyielding proof of his trust, that difficulty had ebbed, and ebbed, until it shattered and withered away.

“I wish we could stay here, like this, forever,” Tuya admits in a whisper. Her fingers curl into his undershirt, around the loosened lacing strings at its neck.

He thumbs at her hip, enfolding her further in his hold.

“What troubles you, my heart?” he says—it is a silly question, to be sure, bordering on presumptuous, but he knows she requires the encouragement. She would never presume to discuss her worries otherwise. 

“The appointed hour is almost upon us, and there is no sign of Lord Aymeric.”

“We know where he is,” Haurchefant replies, stroking a hand down her back. “And if need be, we will set out to retrieve him. The Vault is not impregnable.”

A shiver passes through her. 

“There has been so much death and bloodshed already,” she begins. “I… I cannot believe that the archbishop would listen to reason. He and his men have lived this lie for so very long—lived it, protected it, killed for it. They champion such reckless hate, Haurchefant. That Aymeric may be the blood of their blood—it does not matter.”

“Perhaps not,” Haurchefant says. “I do not think it does, either. The See teaches its bastards that all we can claim are our failings, regardless of their nature. But the tide is turning. An Ishgard united under Ser Aymeric has the greatest chance of becoming a nation that can change—and change for the better. That is why we must go, and do our utmost, heedless of the cost.”

“I know this,” she mutters into his chest. “I know it full well. I am still uneasy.”

“The forethought that causes you that worry is what makes you who you are,” he reminds her. “Here, now: think not of conflict, but of its resolution. Of the after. After it is done, after it is over, we will return here; and you and I will be home, and we can speak about the future, and we will while away the hours dreaming of what is to come.”

“And what is to come?”

She is smiling. He can hear it in her tone. 

_I desire nothing more than to spend the rest of my life at your side,_ he wants to say. _I desire nothing more than to provide you with hearth and home, and such love as you will never want for it again. I desire you, in all ways, from this day forth, ‘til the end. Do you accept?_

Instead, he says, “I will tell you when we return.”

“All right,” she concedes, closing her eyes. “When we return.”

──────

_A SMILE BETTER SUITS A HERO._


End file.
